


World Enough

by Draycevixen



Series: Touching Mr. Reese [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 21:18:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draycevixen/pseuds/Draycevixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/704183">Touching Mr. Reese</a></p><p>Warning: This story contains a very brief description of earlier attempted non-con.</p>
            </blockquote>





	World Enough

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [World Enough(Chinese Translation)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3191573) by [lzqsk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lzqsk/pseuds/lzqsk)



Despite how often it happened, slumped against an elevator wall would never be his preferred way to travel. He glanced at his watch. Finch would probably still be at the library. He already doubted his memory of their short conversation before he’d left to meet Holloway. He could hit the down button and— No. Finch shouldn’t see him like this, despite how desperate he was to see Finch. 

After Fusco and Carter had scraped up what was left of Holloway and Clarke, he’d called Finch to put him off, told him he was tired and that he’d see Finch at the library in the morning. 

As the elevator doors opened, he pulled his coat tighter around himself and then walked slowly down the hall to his apartment. Just a little bit farther. 

The security lock was off. He was reaching for his gun when Finch’s voice came over his ear bud. “It’s just me, Mr. Reese.”

He should have known Finch would be waiting for him. Before opening the door, he turned his collar up, finger-combed his hair, made sure his coat sleeves were pulled all the way down and glued his patented smirk on his face. Bear greeted him enthusiastically and he patted the happy dog before sending him to his dog bed. 

He nodded at Finch, noticing that he’d showered -- his hair was still damp -- and changed clothes. He was touched that Finch had gone to the effort of sprucing up for him even though he’d probably been immaculately groomed beforehand. 

“Said I’d see you in the morning, Finch. I just want a hot shower and a good night’s sleep. You can let yourself out.”

Finch looked puzzled. “I’m sorry.” Finch came closer, heading toward the door. “I thought you’d want to—” 

John knew the moment Finch realized something was wrong by his sharp intake of breath as he stopped speaking. 

“I’m fine, Finch.” He’d have to walk past Finch to get to the bathroom and he wasn’t getting any closer if he could avoid it, so he headed for the kitchen instead. 

Finch stepped in front of him, raising his hand. John flinched, despite himself, but then managed to stand still as Finch palmed his neck, his hand coming away bloody. 

“I said I was fine.”

Finch started to tug at John’s coat collar but he stepped rapidly backwards, tugging free of Finch’s hand. 

It was the crestfallen look on Finch’s face that defeated him. “Holloway had a playmate we didn’t know about. Clarke didn’t play nice.”

“John?” Finch reached for John’s hand, causing him to flinch. Finch pushed back John’s cuff, revealing the damage to his wrist. 

He knew exactly what Finch was going to ask him.

“Take your shower. I’ll get the first aid kit ready.” 

The fact that Harold didn’t ask made him love him just a little bit more. “I don’t play nice either.” He knew he better tell Finch the rest before he found out for himself. “Clarke is on his way to hospital, damaged, but he’ll live.”

“Pity.”

He jerked his head up to stare at Finch but all he could see on Finch’s face was the stone cold truth of it.

“Shower, Mr. Reese, we’re not getting any younger.” 

Standing under the hot water, carefully cleaning his cuts, gave him the necessary time to let go of it. He hadn’t lied to Finch exactly he just didn’t see the point in burdening Finch with the specifics. Clarke had managed to get his hand down John’s pants, had been squeezing John’s cock while he tightened the leather strap around John’s neck, but they’d been too careless for their own good when binding John’s hands. 

He’d broken all the bones in Clarke’s hands before breaking his arms too for good measure, spiral fractures. He would always regret that he hadn’t had more time to spend on Clarke before Carter and Fusco had arrived. 

Out of the shower, he considered putting sweats on but knew Finch would just demand to see the damage anyway, guilt ridden as Finch always was whenever John got hurt. He picked up a dry towel and wrapped it around his waist, tucking in the end. Good enough. 

Finch had removed his jacket, vest and tie and was sitting at the table, working on his laptop. He stopped when John emerged from the bathroom. Finch gestured for him to sit too before handing him a bottle of water and antibiotic pills which he took without question, before turning down the painkillers Finch also offered, all part of a routine that should never have had the chance to become routine. 

Finch was holding John’s hand as he applied steri-strips to the skin of John’s wrist and John was enjoying having his hand held, when Finch’s computer pinged. 

Finch didn’t quite manage to hide the look of satisfaction on his face. 

“What was that?”

“Just moving some funds around.”

“ _Finch._ ”

Finch raised his head to look him directly in the eyes. “All of the money in Holloway’s bank accounts, including the one in the Cayman Islands, just got anonymously donated to several— charities throughout New York.”

John didn’t have to be a genius like Finch to figure out what types of charities he was talking about. 

Finch stood up to probe gently at the damage to John’s neck. 

“The unfortunately underfunded Mr. Holloway will be forced to use a public defender.” Finch gently dabbed antibiotic cream on to the cuts and wheals on John’s neck. “Even more unfortunately for him, the schedule of public defenders has been mysteriously altered to make the next available attorneys the ones with the worst track records in the department.” 

Finch stepped back, running his eyes over the bruises blooming across John’s chest, obviously assessing him for further first aid. Finch glanced down at the towel John was wearing before looking back up. John carefully shook his head to Finch’s evident relief.

“However, fortunately for the public prosecutor, he has just received an electronic file of complaints registered against Holloway in the past that were mysteriously dropped, along with the contact information of those victims.” 

“You shouldn’t have bothered.”

Finch slammed the lid on the first aid box. Bear whined, climbing to his feet and John signaled to settle him back down. 

He watched Finch take a couple of deep breaths, centering himself. Obviously Bear wasn’t the only one surprised by Finch’s reaction. 

“He’s getting off lightly, John.” Finch’s voice was barely a murmur as he gently closed his laptop. “Are you hungry?”

“I just want to lie down” _with you_. It should be simple enough to ask Finch to stay but would Finch feel obligated if John asked? He didn’t want that.

He walked over to the bed, dropped the towel and lay down. Finch cleaned up the mess from working on John’s cuts, washed his hands and puttered a little, straightening things up. He watched Finch from under lowered eyelids, willing Finch to cross the room and join him. 

Finch stopped moving with one hand on top of his closed laptop. “If you don’t mind, I thought I might stay and do some work here, unless of course it will keep you from sleeping.”

“You should get some sleep too, Finch.”

“All right.” 

He could have kicked himself. If he’d just agreed, Finch wouldn’t be leaving and would have still been there when John woke up. 

He was surprised when Finch walked to the other side of the bed sat down and removed his shoes and socks. Finch stood up and unbuttoned his shirt. 

“Finch?”

“Yes?” Finch pulled his shirt loose from his pants and dropped it on the floor. 

He would have assumed that Finch would have been demanding hangers for his clothes and was flattered that Finch was far more interested in getting in to bed with him than in the condition of his wardrobe. 

John felt like he had to say something. “You don’t snore, do you?”

“I don’t think so, no.” Finch pulled his undershirt over his head, leaving his hair sticking up at odd angles, before dropping it on the floor too. “At least no one ever told me I did.” 

The last thing he wanted to think about was witnesses to Finch’s snoring. “Then you can stay.” 

“Ever the gracious host, Mr. Reese.” Finch unbuckled his pants, letting them drop to the floor before stepping out of them. He looked down at the bed and then across at Reese. “Might you spare one of your pillows?” 

He pulled out one of the two pillows under his head and tossed it to Finch who caught it and added it to the stack on his side of the bed. He liked thinking about it as Finch’s side. Finch pulled off his boxers and flipped back the sheets before sitting on the edge of the bed and then swinging his legs around. He eased back into the pillows. 

“Would you turn out the lights, please?”

John hit the switches by his bed, leaving only the kitchen lights on in case Finch might need to find the bathroom in the middle of the night. 

He lay there staring up the ceiling, wondering how he was ever supposed to sleep under these conditions. Finch’s hand briefly brushed over John’s arm and he turned on to his side, settling with his head on Finch’s chest, listening to his steady heartbeat. John brought up his hand and stroked Finch’s chest, before Finch’s hand closing over his stopped him. 

“Go to sleep.” 

“This is all you want?”

“ _Hardly_ , John.” Harold’s hand brushed lightly across John’s temple. “But this is what I want right now.” 

 

He woke up suddenly, as usual, from a nightmare, as usual. What was unusual was someone else’s hand resting on his chest. He turned his head slowly to the left. _Harold_. 

Finch was staring back at him. “You were having a nightmare. I wasn’t sure whether it would be—”

“Safe?” Finch knew exactly who he was in bed with.

“—prudent to wake you. If you don’t wake up, you don’t tend to remember them.”

He turned, sliding his fingers gently across Finch’s throat, verifying there was no trace of Kohl’s needles. It was definitely just another nightmare. He could feel Finch’s pulse against his fingertips, warm, alive and he wanted more, sliding his hand slowly down across Finch’s chest. Finch again stopped his progress with the lightest of touches to his hand. 

“I don’t think this is a good idea, John.” 

“I do.” He stroked Finch’s chest hair. “Unless you’ve changed your mind.” 

“Of course not.” Finch rubbed circles on the back of John’s hand. “You were having a nightmare about Holloway so it would be inadvisable at this time.” 

“Holloway?” He moved to hover over Finch, their lips merely a hairsbreadth apart. “He wouldn’t even make my ‘top one hundred nightmares’ list.” 

John regretted it the moment he said it and waited for pity to show on Finch’s face, for him to say he was sorry— Harold pulled him down and kissed him, fingers sliding in to John’s hair, holding him in place as Harold plundered his mouth. 

He’d expected finesse, wasn’t prepared for raw passion, and was taken by surprise as Harold’s hands stroked down his back to grab his ass, pulling up. 

He was happy to take direction, pushing up with his arms, moving over Harold to lie between his legs, before starting to slide downwards. A hand to the back of his neck stopped him. 

“Not what I meant, Mr. Reese.” Harold patted his chest. “I want you to sit up here.” 

“Why, _Mr. Finch_?”

Somehow the _Mr. Finch disapproves of your childishness_ eyebrow was a lot less amusing and a lot more of a turn-on when with every breath their erections rubbed against each other.

“Because my neck doesn’t bend very well.” 

“And?” He knew he was pushing it, but on more than one stakeout, Finch’s voice in his ear, he’d imagined what Harold’s extensive vocabulary would be like in bed.

“And I want you to fuck my mouth, John.” 

He was straddling Harold’s chest, holding on to the headboard, keeping most of his weight on his knees, before he was really conscious of having moved. Harold looked… pleased with himself. 

John had to look away to stop himself from coming all over Harold’s face right then and there. That particular image was no help at all in getting himself under control. 

“John…” Harold’s hands slid to caress his thighs. 

“Give me a minute, Harold.” He played through field stripping an AK-47 in his mind, taking deep calming breaths. 

“Look at me.” 

He looked down the line of his own body to see Harold sucking his fingers which really didn’t help one damn bit. Harold pulled his sopping fingers from his mouth and reached to pull John even closer, hands sliding again to John’s ass. Harold barely mouthed at the head of John’s cock, his breath hot on the damp skin. And then, without ever breaking eye contact, Harold stopped, other than for brief random flicks with his tongue. Professional torturers had nothing on Harold. 

“Having trouble following instructions, John?”

“What?” 

“I would have thought ‘fuck my mouth’ was pretty unequivocal.”

John eased further forward and Harold’s mouth opened immediately. He slid in, slowly and carefully, well, that was the plan at least. Harold’s hand tightened on his hip, urging him on. Obligingly, he snapped his hips back and pushed in deep. 

He never would have thought that among Harold’s many talents was such a mastery of his gag reflex. As Harold started fingering John in rhythm to his thrusts he stopped thinking altogether… 

…until Harold started swallowing around him. He pulled out and squeezed his cock to stop himself from coming.

“John?” Harold’s voice was hoarse, his lips swollen, and Reese had to struggle to remember there was something he wanted more. 

John rolled over and slipped his hand under the edge of the mattress, retrieving a half-used tube of lube and a box of condoms. He broke the seal on the box and removed one, before straddling Harold again and handing the tube to him. 

“Fuck me, Harold.”

“What?”

He almost told Harold it had been fifteen years since he’d trusted anyone enough to ask. _Almost_. “I would have thought ‘fuck me’ was pretty unequivocal.”

As John ripped the foil open, Harold put the tube down on the bed and reached for John’s hip. 

“Turn around, John. I want to use my mouth on you first.”

John’s hips thrust forward involuntarily just at the thought. “Not this time.”

Harold’s hand fell to the bed as he stared up at John. 

Shit, had he misread Finch’s intentions? He started to fumble for the tube on the bed. If he had, then he’d take whatever little he could get like he always had. Finch rallied, picking up the tube again, unscrewing the cap and slicking his fingers, encouraging John back up on to his knees before reaching back between his legs. 

When this had started, John had wondered just how much experience Finch might have had, but Finch’s fingers were unerring, giving John the necessary time to adjust while driving him crazy, stroking and pressing down in just the right place. By the time Finch’s talented hands had done their work it was only the tightening of Finch’s hand on John’s cock that stopped John from coming. 

“Enough,” John ground out between clenched teeth and Finch withdrew his hand leaving John wanting. 

He slid backwards, briefly stroking Finch’s hard cock before using his mouth to roll the condom on to Finch. He was rusty but Finch didn’t seem to mind, not judging by his blissful expression. 

He didn’t see any need for finesse, wanting Finch right then so he guided him in. It was only Finch’s surprisingly strong hands on John’s hips that slowed him down, looking out for John as usual. When he’d finally taken Finch all the way in, Finch’s hands again stopped him from moving, Finch’s fingers digging in to John’s thighs. 

“This’ll work better if you let me move.” 

“No, it will just go faster.” Finch’s fingers eased up, sliding slowly up John’s thighs towards his stomach. “When I fantasized about this—”

“You did?” 

Finch quelled him with an eyebrow. “—I devised stratagems, envisioned point and counterpoint, planned reconnaissance and—” Finch’s hands moved to cup John’s ass again “—infiltration. It was to be a slow campaign.”

“Nothing slow about this, Finch.” John clamped his muscles down on Finch’s cock, smug at his resulting gasp. 

“ _Had we but world enough, and time_ …” Finch cupped John’s sides, hands moving upwards, slowly tracing John’s ribs and dragging short blunt nails inwards across John’s chest, scraping his nipples. John hissed and arched as Finch drew caressing hands back down his chest. “I made plans, John.”

John was right _there_ , teetering on the edge of orgasm. “Tell me” he ground out. 

“I’ll show you.” Harold’s hands dropped to caress John’s cock. “Everything.”

 _Fuck._ John fell forward, panting, catching his weight on his forearms as Harold’s clever hands continued to coax the last of his orgasm from him. 

 

As the world came slowly back into focus it took him a moment to realize Harold was still hard. John eased up and off him, watching Harold almost bite through his own lip in the process, before peeling the condom and taking Harold in his mouth, once, twice, before Harold flooded his throat. 

John swallowed, and then licked a wide swath up Harold’s chest, hovering over him on his hands and knees, kissing Harold long and deep, letting him taste them both. 

 

He finally settled on Harold’s good side, his head on Harold’s chest, his arm thrown casually across his waist. At least he hoped it seemed casual even though every instinct in him screamed at him to stake his claim. 

“It might take a while…” Harold’s fingers slid through John’s hair, tightening possessively against John’s skull. “…To show you everything, I mean.”

John hoped Harold could feel him smiling against his chest. “I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

**Author's Note:**

> .
> 
>  _Had we but world enough, and time_ is the opening line of Andrew Marvell’s **To His Coy Mistress.**


End file.
